Chapter 3
The blinding glare of the green light cemented a truth buried for seven years, the shock of it sucking every breath of air from the sealed room.
After a brief ringing in my ears, I could almost smell the cold, bitter tang of wet asphalt.
In an instant, I was dragged back seven years, to that lightning storm on a New York street.
That was the year Julian and I were still sworn enemies, tearing each other apart at every turn.
From bribing hackers to sabotage each other's Model UN speeches to fighting over the school's single Ivy League early-admission slot — wherever we were in the same room, there was never half a second of peace.
Not until that cold DNA report was slammed in my face, proving I had no claim to inheritance at all — just some nameless baby the hospital had mixed up at birth.
Overnight, the brightest star of the Upper East Side became garbage, kicked to the curb.
Gordon Blackwood — the man I'd called father for eighteen years — threw my belongings into the rain, his eyes full of undisguised disgust.
"Get out of my house. Every time I think about Elara growing up poor because of you, I feel sick."
He stripped me of the family name, froze my trust fund, notified the school board that night to revoke my enrollment, and had security toss me off the estate like garbage.
The right side of my face was swollen and throbbing. Blood seeped from my knee beneath my torn uniform skirt.
The estate's heavy gates slammed shut behind me.
I wiped the cold rain off my face with the back of my hand, jaw clenched tight.
I couldn't exactly starve on the street. Maybe wait tables at some 24-hour diner — I'd heard night-shift tips weren't bad.
Find a motel that didn't ask for ID, and survive senior year however I could.
I waded through the flooded street, my soaked shirt clinging like ice to my ribs.
Lightning split the sky, and through the white sheet of rain came the screech of tires.
A black Maybach pulled up beside the puddle at my feet.
The door swung open, and a black umbrella opened above my head.
I looked up into Julian's eyes.
Those gray-blue eyes, always so insufferably smug, held no mockery this time. He just stood there in the storm, looking down at me in the mud.
I gritted my teeth and turned away, unwilling to let him see how wrecked I looked. "What, here for a front-row seat?"
"Yeah," his voice flat and muffled under the umbrella. "Came to see how wrecked my invincible rival looks now."
Before I could respond, he grabbed my wrist and hauled me into the back seat.
The cabin lights came on. Julian's face was set hard as he tore open a first-aid kit and cleaned the blood off my mouth with an alcohol wipe.
His movements were stiff, his jaw locked tight.
Rain hammered the windows.
Inside the car, he kept his eyes on the window, avoiding mine, his tone almost too casual.
"The principal asked me to pass along a message. He said the school can't afford to waste its one solid Ivy League slot."
He paused, then added, cold and blunt, "He set up a fund through some anonymous donor. Your enrollment's been transferred to the public high school downtown, apartment's already lined up. If you get in, the fund covers your MIT tuition."
All through senior year, I told myself it was nothing more than condescending charity.
Not until the MIT acceptance and that "anonymous grant" landed in my mailbox on schedule did I finally start breathing again.
After that, Julian went to Stanford, and I threw myself into MIT.
The next time I saw him was seven years later, at a medical tech summit in San Francisco.
I walked in with research that had made headlines in major journals, ready to make my mark.
He'd already led Tiger Tech past a ten-billion-dollar valuation by twenty-three, becoming the most feared founder in Silicon Valley.
At the evening gala, I looked up, and across the crowd, our eyes locked.
He didn't hesitate. Champagne in hand, he walked straight through half the ballroom and stopped in front of me.
"It's an honor, Mr. Kingsley," I said, my face cold as I held my glass steady.
"Long time, Maeve."
The instant our hands clasped, eighteen years of hostility surged back like an undercurrent breaking loose.
— A brief weightlessness swept over me, and my thoughts slammed back to the present.
The stark white room was dead silent.
I stared, frozen, at the tall man standing a few steps away, my throat tightening with every breath.
"So that money — it was all from you?" My fingers curled tight. "Why would you help me? Weren't you dying to beat me?"
Julian let out a short, lazy laugh, but his gray-blue eyes were dark enough to be alarming.
"I did want to beat you." He held my gaze, his voice low and rough. "But I was never going to let you lose to anyone except me."
The air felt frozen when the system's cold mechanical voice cut through it.
[Roles reversed. Maeve, it's your turn now — reveal one absolute secret your opponent doesn't know.]
Julian stepped back, one hand sliding into his pocket. He watched me with open interest:
"All right, Maeve. Let's hear it. What's your secret?"
I closed my eyes.
Ten seconds of silence.
Then I lifted my gaze, met his arrogant stare, and dropped the bombshell in a low voice:
"I'm pregnant."
